


Vigilance

by Cosmicality



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Sick d'Artagnan, Whump, d'Artagnan Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2020-10-17 15:43:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20623520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmicality/pseuds/Cosmicality
Summary: On a mission far from Paris, everything goes wrong when d'Artagnan saves Athos' life, but gets injured in the process.





	1. Day one

**Author's Note:**

> After almost 10 years and over 50 stories of writing whump of my favourite characters (yes, I am guilty of this), I decided to finally upload my first one.  
This one features d'Artagnan, and the relationship with his brothers as he gets injured on a mission, especially that with Athos.  
In my opinion, there simply isn't enough d'Artagnan whump in the series, so I figured I'll just have to create my own ;).  
Might involve some Constance later on, but no promises. I am not quite sure where the story will take me yet.  
(Also, English is not my native language, so please forgive me for the grammatical errors / bad word choices that might be in there!)

D'Artagnan shivered as a gust of chilling winter wind seeped through the cracks of his clothing. He wrapped his cloak a bit tighter around him, hoping that it might provide a better barrier against the unrelenting cold. But alas, nothing seemed to work.

What would at the least help, he figured, was if they would ride faster than the currently, dreading, slow trot of their horses. But the mission they were on required absolute vigilance, not speed. There had been reports of bandits roaming an area below Paris, about a week on horseback from the city. They had been ransacking villages, killing nearly everyone in them (but sadly, not before having their ways with the women, as well), according to some survivors. Those survivors had travelled through the unrelenting snowstorms, that had been raging over France for the last few weeks, in order to get this news to the King. The journey for them had not been an easy one, as the risk of dying had been great, so everyone figured it must really be as bad as they said it was. Treville had assigned the four of them to find and deal with these bandits once and for all.

They had already roamed the area for about a week – the area where the reports came from was very large – but had found no signs of them (aside from a few abandoned villages). The lively villages they _did_ find were only all too glad to see them. The villagers had given them information, food, and a place to stay without any fuss, to all of the Musketeers' delight. If only it could always be that easy.

In the last village they had been in, they were told by an old, and very skittish man – possibly nervous about all the rumours of the bandits close by – that there was a village not far north from where they were that they could stay in next. And so that was where they were headed. D'Artagnan shivered once more, as he watched his friends battle the cold as well. It was getting dark by now, and they had to find this village – or any kind of shelter – soon, or they would probably – no, most likely – freeze to death. It was starting to dawn on them that the village the man had told them about was not close to the previous village at all. And if it was, they surely would reach it soon. But the roads were very unkempt, bushes or trees blocking the path every few meters. It looked not at all like they were close to a village, or any kind of human life for that matter, at all.

"Perhaps 'tis smarter to turn around," Porthos said, breaking the silence that had engulfed them for the last half hour. "Go back to the village we came from."

"No, it is too far," Athos said matter-of-factly. "We won't make it. We have to find the village that the man spoke of. Surely, we must be close by now." But even Athos seemed hesitant in his believing his own words.

"Perhaps he didn't remember it right?" D'Artagnan couldn't help but say what he had been thinking for a long time. "He was old after all." He frowned one eyebrow at thinking back to the encounter. "And a bit strange."

"Seems likely," Aramis agreed. "I suggest we turn back. We passed some caves a while ago which we can shelter in."

Everyone looked at Athos for confirmation. He took a deep breath in before speaking, probably disappointed by the passage of yet another useless day. "Alright," he finally said.

D'Artagnan sighed as well. He was glad that they were turning around. The further they went along this path, the more the uneasy feeling in his stomach grew. It was that same feeling one gets when being stared at. Or perhaps he was just hungry. He grabbed his now growling stomach – feeling the need to make itself known at the thought of food – as they turned the horses around to go back the way they came from.

They rode for another fifteen minutes, none of them speaking. Perhaps it was because they were all too focused on surviving the cold. Perhaps it was because they were all hungry and tired, and speaking was simply too much of an ordeal. Or perhaps, it was because they all felt disappointed by another uneventful day, as crazy as that sounds.

In the case of d'Artagnan, it was all of those, but also something else. It was the lingering uneasy feeling in his stomach, growing increasingly with every step. It was the eerie silence of the woods around them, signs of any wildlife far and few between. And it was also the occasional crunching of snow he heard, that put him on edge. None of the others seemed to notice though, and so he kept quiet. Perhaps he was just imagining things, as one does when the situation is dire, and one is hungry and tired, and possibly – no, quite certainly – undercooled.

But then, the crunching in the snow became very obviously closer, hidden in between the howls of the growing wind. He caught something moving in the corner of his eyes, a black shape swiftly dancing from tree to tree.

Or were his eyes just playing tricks on him?

No, it was definitely a man. A man that was now standing only about 50 meters from them, holding up a pistol, and aiming it at Athos, who was riding right in front of d'Artagnan.

And it was definitely only d'Artagnan who had noticed.

Then, he saw the man's hand moving in such a way that indicated he was about to pull the trigger.

Without hesitation, d'Artagnan hurried his horse forward, the goal being to end up between Athos and the bullet, yelling Athos' name as he did. Then, a loud bang, an object nearing his eye, the instinct to raise his arm in front of his head, that – he would later realize – saved his life, and an intense pain that followed shortly after. He was thrown backwards, a whirlwind of sounds all around him. The impact to the ground – not even softened a little bit by the thick layer of snow – forced all the air out of him as he gasped loudly. Random dark spots danced in his vision for a while, accompanied by the incessant ringing in his ears that drowned out all other sounds, as he felt a warm trickle of blood slowly descending from his temple down his jaw.

For a moment, it felt like he was drunk and having a hangover at the same time. And he was painfully aware of it all. He wasn't sure if he was awake, or just having a bad dream in which nothing made sense. Because if he was awake, he could not hear, he could not see, he could not move, and he could not speak. If it wasn't for the pain being so clearly present, he would have been certain that he was dreaming. It was the only thing that kept him awake. The only thing of reality he could grasp and hold on to.

A voice, slowly boring through the seemingly never-ending ringing in his ears brought him back to the real world.

"Can you hear me? D'Artagnan!"

A face, appearing as the black clouds in his vision cleared away, leaning over him, accompanied by concerned eyes. Not wanting to see that look in anyone's eyes, ever, d'Artagnan closed his eyes again.

"D'Artagnan. Stay with me. Look at me," the voice insisted.

Despite what d'Artagnan was feeling, he obeyed the voice without hesitation, looking back into the man's eyes. They were less concerned, now, if just a little.

"Good, keep looking at me. Breathe, d'Artagnan, breathe."

Only then did he notice he had been holding his breath. Obeying the man, he attempted to breathe in. "Oh god," he heard himself mumbling, and groaned quietly, as with that one breath he took, all the pain in his body seemed to intensify by a million times.

"Bruised or broken ribs, probably," he heard the voice above him murmur. "Keep looking at me, d'Artagnan. Just breathe through it, okay?"

And so d'Artagnan breathed. Again, and again. Over, and over. And with each breath, he felt himself feeling more awake bit by bit, but with that also came more awareness of all the pain he was feeling. There was his chest, stinging with each breath. There was his head, throbbing so much it felt like the veins in his head were about to explode. And then there was his arm, feeling strangely warm, feeling strangely weak, and feeling like something tight was wrapped around it. He could not move it, immobile as a baby wrapped in ten blankets against the cold.

"What happened?" d'Artagnan finally dared to ask, when he was sure he could talk again (and actually focus on what was being said back).

"You don't remember?" the voice he now recognized as Aramis asked.

"I remember seeing a man. He was aiming a pistol at Athos. Is Athos…?" He had trouble finishing the sentence. He wouldn't know what to feel, or do, if anything happened to his mentor.

"You saved his life. You caught the bullet in your left arm, and _thankfully_ it didn't go through all the way, because you had raised it just in time to protect your face. Then, the horse got startled, and threw you off its back after it reared. I've been sitting with you here ever since."

"And Athos?" D'Artagnan coughed silently. "Porthos?"

"They are chasing down who did this."

D'Artagnan didn't know what to say in response. He just hoped they were alright. But… what if the man who tried to shoot Athos had back-up? And had wanted to draw them out? What if it had been their plan all along? "You should go help them," he heard himself say, driven by the worries in his mind.

"Nonsense. I'm staying right here." The marksman would have none of it, and d'Artagnan knew it.

"Please. I'll be fine," d'Artagnan nonetheless insisted.

"No, you won't. You will lose too much blood if I don't keep applying pressure on your wound."

"Just put a bandage around it. And leave me with a pistol."

"I would, but Athos' horse is carrying the medical supplies. And Athos is not here."

At that point d'Artagnan gave up, figuring the extra fuss – which was increasing the pain in his head tenfold – wasn't worth it. And so he just breathed, as that was the only thing he could do right now.

In and out.

Over and over.

** *****

It started with a scream. A scream that was his name.

"Athos!" he had heard his student shout, out of nowhere, rousing him from the daydream of a warm bed and a warm meal that was keeping him going through the stinging cold winds. But before he could react, there was the sound of a pistol being fired, and the boy appeared at his left side. He heard the scream of the Gascon as the bullet hit his arm. _A bullet_, Athos thought, _that had been meant for me_. Then d'Artagnan's horse had thrown the poor boy off in an instant, running away as if the horse thought it had been he who had been the target.

But never mind the horse.

Athos had looked to his left, and saw the man – smoke still emerging from the pistol's barrel – running away, swiftly dodging the dense trees around him.

Without needing to say a word, every Musketeer knew what to do. He and Porthos set off after the man, while Aramis jumped off his horse to help d'Artagnan. It wasn't ideal to split up in a situation like this, but he didn't – no, he couldn't – let the man who shot his friend just flee like that. And he knew his friends were feeling the same. As they rode side by side, he could hear Porthos' heavy breaths of anger resonating in his own ears. Or perhaps, it was his own breaths that he heard.

At first, they made up leeway on the fleeing man, but as the trees grew denser and denser, their branches leaving little room for the horses to traverse, they were forced to give up. They could no longer see any sign of the man, the darkness of the dense forest not visible enough to make a chase in any way possible.

"Let's go back. We'll look for him tomorrow." Athos said. Despite the anger he was feeling, he knew what the better course of action was. First, they had to help d'Artagnan. And that for sure meant finding shelter. Porthos simply nodded, and he could feel the disappointment coming from the man at not being able to catch the attacker.

Thankfully, there was a little light to it all, as they saw d'Artagnan's horse cantering not far from them. It had calmed down by now and, thankfully, went back with them willingly. And so they rode back to the other two Musketeers, relieved to find them still in the same place, and unharmed. Well… not further harmed than they already were.

Athos saw Aramis was holding the boy's upper arm tightly, and he was all too glad to see that d'Artagnan was awake. But he also felt some sort of resentment towards the boy that he hated to admit. All he could hear himself thinking was: _the bullet had been meant for me, damn it_. The stupid boy just had to jump in and save him._ I mean, of course he did. He was d'Artagnan, after all_. But now it was he who was injured. And it shouldn't have been him. _It should have been me_.

"How's he?" Porthos asked, dismounting his horse to take a closer look at the Gascon, asking what Athos had not dared to ask.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan said, but afterwards groaned so loudly that it took away all the credibility of his words.

Athos and Porthos looked at Aramis for answers instead.

"He'll be fine," Aramis said, and Athos felt like a heavy weight had just been released from his shoulders. "But only if you hand me the bandages in your pack," Aramis continued, looking sternly into Athos' eyes. The look of a desperate medic, Athos noticed. "And only if we find shelter. Rather sooner than later."

Athos didn't hesitate. He too, dismounted from his horse, scrambled through his bags and cursed as he couldn't find the bandages anywhere at first. At that moment, he swore he would never just haphazardly throw things in his pack again, but would put them at more logical places where they could easily be reached. Yet the medic seemed patient, so he calmed down a little too. He carefully handed the bandages to Aramis as soon as he found them.

And as Aramis removed his hand from the wound to start binding it, Athos had to look away. There was blood all over Aramis' hands. Blood that should have been his. _It should have been me_.

"There, all done for now," Aramis sighed, putting his best smile on display. The best he could muster, anyway. "We'll remove the bullet, clean, and stitch later. First, we need to find shelter. Can you ride?" he asked d'Artagnan.

"Don't have much choice, do I?" d'Artagnan joked. If he was in a mood to joke, then he must not be feeling _that_ bad, Athos figured, and he felt himself calm down a bit more.

"'fraid not," Porthos chuckled, and him and Aramis helped the boy sit first. Athos felt helpless as his student would have fallen when they helped him stand up, if it wasn't for the two Musketeers keeping him upright. The pain that d'Artagnan was in was clearly readably on his face, like a headline in a newspaper, and it hurt Athos in different places.

They slowly helped him up on his horse, and he heard d'Artagnan let out a sigh of relief when he was finally seated, as if the whole ordeal had been a tiring battle of some sorts.

They continued riding towards the caves, the path only wide enough for one horse. Athos went first, then d'Artagnan, Aramis and finally Porthos. All of them – except for d'Artagnan – were very alert this time, not letting the cold and tiredness distract them from their duties anymore.

Athos couldn't help but look back several times to see how d'Artagnan was doing. Every time he looked, the boy seemed to be doing worse. First, he saw that d'Artagnan wasn't able to keep his body straight while riding anymore, his shoulders rotated forward, his head hanging loosely from his neck, his body swaying left and right as if he was about to fall off. Then, he would see the boy's breath becoming swallower and swallower, his skin growing paler and paler, and his expression growing more pained by the second. But despite all that, the boy remained seated in his horse like he was glued to the saddle. Aramis had noticed the worsening condition of the Gascon as well, and it worried Athos to see the look on Aramis' face every time he looked back, too. At some point, when the path widened, Aramis came to ride next to d'Artagnan.

"Give me the reigns, I'll lead the horse. You just stay focussed on remaining seated," the medic suggested.

Athos looked back over his shoulder to see d'Artagnan nod, the look in the Gascon's eyes one of a man who hadn't slept in days, and hand over the reins of his horse to Aramis. To see the rookie so submissive like this – he had been joking only a while ago, after all – was _very_ worrying. He knew how stubborn the boy could be – truly, Athos knew no one who could match d'Artagnan's obstinacy – and he figured it would have been the last thing to leave him.

It had grown dark quickly. Too quickly. They knew they were close to the caves they had seen earlier, the hills around them growing rockier and more clifflike, but it was hard to see anything around them. First of all, there was the darkness, only scared away by the few rays of moonlight that made it through the branches of the dense trees around them. Second of all, there was the snowstorm that had come as sudden as a bolt of lightning, the never-ending snowflakes obscuring their vision even more. But at the same time, the blanket of snow _did_ help with visibility, making it just the bit lighter, and without it, they would have been truly helpless.

"I remember this," Porthos suddenly shouted. Loudly. He had to so they could hear him at all over the howling of the wind. "There was a cave close to here. I remember seeing it."

"Which way?" Athos shouted, his voice hoarse from the cold.

"Follow me!" Porthos responded.

They followed the Musketeer, not knowing what else to do. Thankfully, the dark-skinned man had remembered well. The winds grew quieter as they neared a steep cliff. And in that cliff, they could see the rough outline of a cave-opening. At that moment, it was as if all of them could breathe again.

Except for d'Artagnan.

With a thud, he fell from his horse into the snow – the second time he had fallen from a horse today. Athos wouldn't have known he had fallen at all – the wind still too loud for him to hear much around him – if it wasn't for Aramis shouting the boy's name.

He looked around, and didn't hesitate to dismount his horse and walk over to his student lying motionless in the snow, Aramis already crouched next to him.

"We'll have to carry him the rest of the way. Porthos, can you take the horses?" Athos shouted over the howling of the wind. Porthos nodded, and did as told.

They lifted the boy, not caring to be particularly gentle, both having one of his arms around their neck. Aramis didn't seem to care that this might aggravate the wound on the Gascon's arm, and so Athos didn't either. They dragged him into the cave, gently laying him on the cold floor as they got inside, where Porthos was already laying firewood on the ground, desperate to chase the cold away as soon as possible. Athos was at that moment ever too thankful of the Gascon, who had thought of already putting some firewood in his horse's sacks earlier that day, just in case.

"Is he okay?" Athos panted, looking at the boy who was still breathing shallowly. He was unrecognizably pale. Almost like snow.

"No, he has lost a lot of blood. It's a wonder he had stayed on his horse this long in the first place."

Athos felt strangely proud of the boy, but then remembered that it was his fault that d'Artagnan was feeling like this. If he had just noticed the shooter sooner. If he had just been more vigilant. "What can we do to help?" Athos asked instead, wanting to be useful now, at the least.

By now Porthos had managed to have a fire going, and its warmth brought a kind of relief that felt strangely undeserved.

"Grab me my medical supplies," Aramis said, in a tone that suggested they had no time to lose. Athos nodded and grabbed them, this time more swiftly.

In the meantime, he also heard the medic giving Porthos orders – who, after the fire was going nicely – immediately came to their side to help. "Help me take his clothing off so I can work on his arm."

Athos waited patiently as they took off d'Artagnan's cloak, jacket and thin t-shirt, so that the wound on his arm was exposed. Now that he was topless, they could see the various bruises that were spread across his chest. His student immediately started shivering, and they lay one of their thick blankets over him, while keeping his arm exposed.

"Hand me the alcohol," Aramis said while keeping his eyes fixed on d'Artagnan, holding up one hand in which he could receive the alcohol. Athos did as ordered, putting the bottle of alcohol in the medic's hand.

*******

D'Artagnan awoke with a scream, the pain so intense he would have jolted to a sitting position if it hadn't been for the hands holding him down. Through gritted teeth, he observed the scene before him as it slowly came into focus.

"It's okay," he heard Aramis say. "You're safe. You're fine."

"Aramis," d'Artagan said between shallow breaths. And it wasn't only Aramis. Porthos and Athos were leaning over him as well. He looked around him best he could, realising they had found shelter in a cave of some sorts. A fire was burning not far from him, the heat feeling so comfortable he closed his eyes, wanting to fall into a long slumber. Perhaps, if he slept long enough, he would wake up feeling himself again.

"That's right," Aramis smiled.

Then he remembered what happened. He had tried so hard not to be a bother to his friends, knowing they were just as tired as he was. But nonetheless, he had failed, and hadn't been able to at least stay on his horse – the only task they had given him. "I'm sorry I passed out," he couldn't help but mouth.

"Don't be silly," Aramis said, smirking, somehow always knowing just what to say, but most importantly, how to say it.

"We were basically almost there already," Porthos added, giving d'Artagnan his signature grin as well. "They didn't have to carry you far. Moreover, they could use the workout."

Athos said nothing. There was something in his eyes that made d'Artagnan uncomfortable. Like he had done something wrong.

…Had he?

"D'Artagnan, I'm going to remove the bullet now. It will hurt, but you have to keep still best you can." Aramis gave him a look that conveyed that it would indeed hurt. A lot. The look also said that he had to stay still. Very still.D'Artagnan simply nodded, and closed his eyes to prepare for the pain to come.

But nothing could have prepared him for it, and it wasn't long before he passed out again.

*******

Athos couldn't bear to hear the screams that followed. The only comfort was that they didn't last long.

"There, it's out," the medic said proudly, looking at the bullet he was holding between his thumb and index finger.

"Poor boy has passed out again," Porthos mumbled. D'Artagnan had indeed passed out. Perhaps it was for the better.

"I'm not surprised. Hand me the alcohol again, please," Aramis said matter-of-factly. Athos handed him the alcohol. This time, when he poured a part of the contents on d'Artagnan's arm, washing away the blood with it, the Gascon gave no stir. Athos wondered whether he should be worried, or glad.

"Stitches," requested the medic who had been their saviour so many times on these kind of missions. Athos handed Aramis the thread and needle he had already prepared. Then Aramis set to carefully suturing the wound. The man's constant boasting about his needlework was indeed well placed. He worked with speed and precision, at the same time. And before they knew it, the wound was fully stitched, looking not as bad as it had before. Finally, Aramis cleaned the wound – now surrounded by dried and crusty blood – on d'Artagnan's head, mumbling that it, thankfully, didn't need suturing. They carefully dressed the still shivering d'Artagnan, and when they laid him back onto the ground, all cleaned up and taken care off, the other three Musketeers let out an almost synchronised sigh of relief.

"He'll be fine," Aramis said, his eyes closed as he took a deep breath out. "He'll be fine," he repeated, as if he needed to hear the reaffirmation.

Only then did Athos notice that both Aramis and Porthos looked almost as bad as d'Artagnan, and exactly as how he himself felt. He, too, was exhausted. Simply exhausted. And without a doubt, so were his brothers.

"I suggest we all get some rest," Athos said.

"I won't say no to that." Even Porthos, who usually always looked like he was ready for a fight at any time, was sitting slumped down, too tired to bear his weight any longer.

After a long sigh, Aramis agreed. "Me neither. But, I have to stay awake…" he started, looking absent-mindedly at d'Artagnan.

Athos laid a hand on Aramis' shoulder. "We'll take turns. Wake me in an hour."

Porthos flashed Aramis a smile, indicating that he agreed with the terms that were just set. The Spaniard nodded slowly, and Athos could see in his eyes that Aramis was glad to be able to get some rest too, eventually.

And so Athos went to sleep, next to Porthos, basking in the warmth of the fire, with a heavy heart and a busy mind. The same thought kept roaring through his mind kept him awake for longer than he wished.

_It should have been me._


	2. Day two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided not to delay uploading the second chapter, since it was already done and only needed proof-reading. The third chapter will take a bit longer, since I am still working on that. Hope you enjoy <3.

D'Artagnan awoke to the sound of crackling fire, the bustling of loud Musketeers talking amongst themselves, and a strong smell of mushroom invading his nostrils. He slowly opened his eyes, squinting at the bright light that entered without invitation, laying one hand over his face as if that would ease his growing headache.

"Ah, d'Artagnan. Y're 'wake," he heard Porthos mumble, the food that was still in his mouth drowning away parts of the words, having to be put together like pieces of a puzzle.

Athos and Porthos were sitting near the fire, enjoying a bowl of – what d'Artagnan assumed, considering the penetrating smell and the white, mushy substance that was dripping from Porthos' spoon – mushroom soup.

"How are you feeling?" Athos asked, wise enough to swallow his food before speaking. The blue eyes of his mentor still conveyed that same feeling of disappointment that it had the day before. It was the same look he was given whenever he had disobeyed an order (_even _if that disobedience turned out to have been the better action). He averted his mentor's gaze, searching for something, _anything_, he could look at instead.

"I'm fine," he heard himself responding. But he wasn't fine, really. In truth, he just didn't want to disappoint Athos even more. He didn't want to keep seeing that strange expression in his eyes. And how could he admit to him, then, that he wasn't feeling fine, at all? Surely, that would let his mentor down even more than he, apparently, already had.

"You don't look fine to me," Porthos said, this time having swallowed his food before speaking too.

"At least he is back to his stubborn self," Athos had to remark. He heard them chuckle, and he felt a bit like the King's fool. At least that fool was supposed to be laughed at. But not him.

"Where is Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked instead, ignoring the remarks, eager to talk about anything else than his wellbeing.

"Still sleeping," Porthos answered. "Behind you," he continued upon seeing the confusion on d'Artagnan's face.

And indeed, there he was, leaning against the cold, stone wall of the cave, his arms crossed, his hat covering most of his face – a vigilant guardian against the sun that was coming in through the cave entrance, reflected by the thick and smooth layer of snow outside.

"He looked so peaceful, we didn't dare wake him up," Porthos added while smiling and looking at the sleeping man like he was some cute baby.

"Though, we probably should, now that d'Artagnan is awake," Athos reminded the brawler.

Porthos sighed, and put down his bowl of soup, spilling some of it over the sides as he did. He walked over to Aramis, whose silent snores could be heard now that no one was talking. Porthos laid a hand on the man's shoulder, and the medic awakened with a startle. Straightening his hat was the first thing he did.

*******

"D'Artagnan is awake." Porthos informed him.

Aramis had been waiting for those words all night. His eyes met those of d'Artagnan, who was looking as weary as he himself felt. The Spaniard stood up with a sigh, walking over to where d'Artagnan was laying. Despite his own exhaustion, he put up a smile, its warmth only comparable to the fire that had kept them alive during the night.

"How are you feeling?" he asked the young Musketeer.

"He's fine," Porthos interjected jokingly, grinning, before taking another bite of the mushroom soup. "What? Said so 'imself," he added upon seeing the look on Aramis face.

Aramis ignored Porthos, turning back to d'Artagnan. "Feeling well enough to sit upright, at the least?"

"Yeah, I think so," d'Artagnan answered.

The Gascon obviously struggled as he helped him upright. His face was contorted with pain, and he had subconsciously laid an arm around his chest. Aramis noticed he was still breathing shallowly. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah." D'Artagnan said, keeping his eyes fixed on something behind Aramis. When Aramis followed the boy's gaze, he found Athos at the end of it, giving the Gascon a disconcerting look. He decided not to say anything about it.

"Let's get you over to the wall," Aramis suggested. "Porthos, help me out." He chose Porthos specifically, since Athos seemed to have some sort of bad effect on the young Musketeer. Aramis didn't blame the Gascon. He knew very well the effect of 'the gaze', even though he himself had learned to ignore it by now.

Porthos came over after first setting his bowl of soup down, and Aramis suddenly noticed the emptiness in his stomach, as he stared at that bowl with a burning desire for food. But that would have to come later. They hoisted d'Artagnan up under the arms, carefully dragging him about half a meter backwards so he could lean against the cave wall. The Gascon seemed thankful, as he succumbed all his weight into the cold, stone wall, closing his eyes in a peaceful surrender.

"Not so fast. Gotta take a look at your arm, first. Take off your jacket and shirt, please." Aramis wanted to see how the wound was. Just to make sure it wasn't getting infected. D'Artagnan gave him a look that had just a hint of annoyance in it. Obviously, he was just yearning for rest, wanting to be left alone. Nonetheless, the boy obeyed, and Aramis helped him take off his jacket and shirt. The latter proved to be an arduous ordeal, seeing as raising two arms above the Gascon's chest greatly aggravated the pain in his chest and arm.

"It will be a miracle if your stitches survive this," he heard d'Artagnan joke when they were halfway with taking off his shirt. It was good to hear him joke. Really good.

"Hey. Don't you dare doubt my needlework," Aramis said, unable to resist joining the banter. He heard Porthos and Athos chuckle, who were probably also relieved at hearing the boy starting to be himself again. And naturally, they managed to get the shirt off without opening the wound.

"Your stitches have yet to _not_ fail on me!" Porthos teased, helping with brightening the sombre mood that had befallen the Musketeers by the events from the day before.

"I think that is more down to user error, than anything," Aramis rebutted.

Even d'Artagnan couldn't help but chuckle, but his laugh was interrupted by a grimace, and an arm reaching for his chest. Aramis laid a hand on the young man's shoulder, as if that would make the pain better.

"How bad is the pain in your ribs?" he dared asking the Gascon.

D'Artagnan seemed to wait until the worst of the pain had passed before answering. "I've had worse," the Gascon mumbled, avoiding the medic's eyes to glance at Athos again. Aramis let out a sigh, wishing d'Artagnan – and many other of his patients, for that matter – would give more direct answers. So, instead, he let his judgement on the severity of the pain depend on how the boy looked, and that told Aramis that the pain was bad.

"Can you be quicker, Aramis? Surely just 'taking a look' at my arm shouldn't take this long." The Gascon had been starting to shiver uncontrollably. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the wall behind him. "I'm freezing," he added in a faint voice, as if not wanting the others to hear it.

Aramis grabbed a blanket and carefully laid it over d'Artagnan, while keeping his left arm exposed. "Better?"

"Not really. Look, can you just examine at it already? Before I freeze to death, please."

"Ever the impatient man," Aramis grumbled, but he couldn’t help but smile at d'Artagnan's complaints. "All of you are terrible patients, you know that?"

"We know," Athos said, smiling.

Porthos shrugged, and then chuckled loudly.

"Well, the wound looks fine. There's a little irritation, but nothing to worry about," Aramis sighed, and helped d'Artagnan's dress again so he could stop complaining about being cold. The boy, again, couldn't help but wince, and looked exhausted from the pain. They met eyes, and Aramis saw the pain the boy was in reflected in them.

"Anything else?" d'Artagnan asked him.

"Yes." Aramis laid his hand on the boy's shoulder again, giving it a little squeeze. "I know it hurts, but you have to start taking deeper breaths. If you keep breathing at this shallow pace, you will catch a lung infection. Especially in this weather."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes, sir," he said ironically, as if responding to an order from a higher-up.

"Good man," Aramis smiled, and gave the man a little pat on the shoulder. "Now, how about some food?" The question was directed at himself, as well.

"Yes, please. I’m starving," d'Artagnan all but pleaded.

Porthos had already prepared a bowl of mushroom soup for the both of them, and handed them to Aramis with a smile. Aramis gladly took it, the hunger that had settled in his stomach starting to ache. D'Artagnan took a bowl from Aramis with the same gratitude in his eyes.

They ate, the four Musketeers involved in a friendly banter about anything they could imagine. With every bite, d'Artagnan seemed to join in more and more, as if the soup was revitalizing him bit by bit. Aramis felt himself coming alive as well. Although the soup was bland and didn't taste particularly great, it was the best soup he had ever had, purely because of the much-needed, energizing feeling it gave him. It was incredibly good to see everyone was feeling like themselves again. And it was partly, Aramis noticed, thanks to d'Artagnan. The boy sparked some kind of energy into the rest of them.

"So, what's the plan for today?" Porthos eventually asked, folding his arms. Everyone looked at Athos for an answer.

And Athos looked at d'Artagnan. "Can you ride?"

"Yeah," d'Artagnan nodded, and this time no one doubted his words.

"Then we should go back to the village we came from. Refill our food supply, and find that man who gave us incorrect information," Athos suggested. Or ordered. No one could ever really be sure with Athos.

They all nodded nonetheless, and started to clean up the camp they had made. Porthos helped d'Artagnan stand up, and Aramis frowned at d'Artagnan winces and groans of pain, but the boy was adamant that he was fine. Aramis nonetheless wanted to at least help him mount his horse, but with a hint of annoyance, d'Artagnan told him off and did it himself.

The weather was thankfully a lot milder today, as the sky was clear and the sun shone gently down upon the earth, and that made the trek a lot easier. Aramis still made sure that he could keep d'Artagnan within eye reach, by insisting that d'Artagnan ride in front of him, or next to him if possible. But for the whole journey towards the village, the boy sat confidently in his saddle, and aside from the occasional pain that contorted on his face, he seemed mostly fine. And when they dismounted their horses upon arrival, he seemed to have no trouble doing so at all. Aramis figured he needed not that much looking after, after all. The Gascon had always had an incredible ability to bounce back from injuries.

"Musketeers! You have returned!" a voice shouted. It was the woman who had offered them lodgings the night before, called Angelique. She was running towards them at an alarming rate. When she reached them, she tried to haphazardly explain what happened between short breaths, but none of it made sense.

"Calm down, catch your breath," Athos reassured the woman. She nodded, and did as told, leaning on a nearby fence as she tried to calm her breathing. Her blond hair was sitting like a bird's nest on her head, full of tangles and knots. Her dress was full of crinkles, and was sitting crooked on her shoulders. It was not at all like the day before, when she had looked like she was going to meet the King.

When she finally started speaking, it was interrupted by sobs and just as incomprehensible as before. "They… they got… they have… my husband…" she sobbed, and fell into the arms of d'Artagnan – who was standing closest to her – hiding her face into his chest. It was obvious that it pained the young Musketeer, but the woman was too busy with her own problems that she didn't notice. The boy also made sure to hide it well.

"Whose they?" Aramis asked her hastily.

"The… the bandits," she answered in a muffled voice, staining d'Artagnan's leather jacket with tears as she had dug her head in it. "Oh god." She shrieked so loudly that people around the village were starting to be curious about what happened, leaving their houses to see what was happening.

"Calm down, Angelique. Try to tell us what happened." This time it was d'Artagnan's voice, as he stroked her back gently, trying to calm her. It seemed to work, as her sobs got less frequent, and eventually she left the Gascon's embrace, wiping the last of her tears away from her red stained eyes.

"He was going for a walk. Like he always does in the late afternoons. But he never returned." She started crying yet again, unable to control herself.

"And you're sure the bandits took him?" Porthos asked, raising one eyebrow.

The woman looked at him in disgust. "Of course! What else could it have been?"

Athos cleared his throat. "And what does your husband look like?"

She turned to him. "Why, he was the man who spoke to you at the tavern yesterday. His name is Maurice."

The Musketeers all exchanged glances with each other. Aramis knew exactly what they were thinking, namely the exact same thing he himself was thinking. Because that man, who the woman spoke of, was the man who informed them about the apparently non-existing village. And he was old, much older than Angelique. But who was Aramis to judge? He knew love could come from strange places.

But that was not why they exchanged glares. It was because of the man's behaviour yesterday. He hadn't been exactly... 'right in the head', as one would say. And to suddenly disappear on a walk like that, well, it could mean that something _other_ than being captured by bandits could have happened. But again, who was he to judge?

"Yes, we know him," Athos finally said. "And where does he usually go on his walks?"

The woman blinked, a glimmer of hope shining in her eyes. "In the woods south of the village. He usually doesn't venture far."

"Alright," Athos said. "We'll go look for him. You have my word."

She gave him a tight embrace, while starting to uncontrollably sob again as she repeated 'thank you', over and over. Athos didn't look very amused, and Aramis and the other two Musketeers couldn't help but smirk.

*******

Athos felt uncomfortable in her embrace, which was a bit too tight for his liking. The look on his friends' faces wasn't helping, either. But, gentleman he was, he let her hug him however tight she wanted, and however long she wanted. Anything to calm her down.

"Let me get you some supplies for your journey," the woman finally said, much to the delight of all of them. It was one of the reasons they had come back to the village, after all.

When she left, Athos turned to d'Artagnan. "Will you be well enough to join us? Be honest."

D'Artagnan nodded. "I won't slow you down, if that's what you're asking. And I can fight just as well – it's my left arm that's injured, not my right." They all stared at him for a long second, as if wanting more confirmation. "I'm fine. Really," he added.

"Then I'll take your word for it," Athos said. The boy looked fine, after all. But it was hard to believe, after seeing him on the verge of death just the day before. He looked up at the sky, relieved to see that the sun was right above them. That meant they still had a good portion of the day left. "We should leave as soon as possible."

At that moment the woman returned, bags – stuffed with food – dangling from her hands. They thanked her greatly, wanting to pay for it, but she would have none of it.

"Just find him," was all she asked of them in return.

But little did they know the task the woman had set before them.

*******

They set off only a few minutes after stuffing all the food in their bags, towards the woods to the south of the village. The rest of the day was uneventful. They didn't find any signs of the missing Maurice, or of the bandits, for that matter.

But all the while, d'Artagnan had been starting to feel gradually worse. When Athos had asked him if he was fine earlier – and his mentor still couldn't help but glance backwards at him from time to time – he hadn't lied about feeling all right. No, he had felt well enough to do almost anything that would have been asked of him. But now, he wasn't so sure anymore.

His head was pounding with the intensity of an army of horses. His arm was throbbing repeatedly, as if someone was punching it from the inside. Also, the task of taking deeper breaths Aramis had given him, was harder than he had thought it would be. And amongst all the pain he was feeling, that one was the most annoying, never away for more than a few seconds before having to breathe again. He promised himself that he would never be ungrateful for being able to take deep breaths ever again.

But the most unnerving thing, was the tiredness – accompanied by feeling weaker and weaker – that had been slowly creeping up on him. Something about it didn't feel right. Sure, he had no doubt that his mates were feeling tired as well, but this was different. It wasn't just the tiredness one feels from lack of sleep. Or that from lack of food. Or that from being active all day. No, it was different. But in what way, he couldn't grasp.

But he had promised Athos and the others that he was fine, and that he wouldn't slow them down, and so he kept it to himself. It was probably nothing anyway, he guessed. It was probably a concoction of all the reasons for a man to be tired that was ailing him, he figured. And since no one had noticed any change in his behaviour, he would like to keep it that way. No use in worrying them over nothing that sleep couldn't fix.

He was more than glad when they found another cave, and when Athos announced they would spend the night there. It wasn't dark yet, but it seemed that none of them wanted to risk having to find shelter later in the day and being unable to find any. That would result in four very tired Musketeers, and they all knew what could happen if they didn't remain vigilant. Even Musketeers have to learn from their mistakes, sometimes.

Aramis and Athos went on to gather some firewood, while he and Porthos parked the horses and started preparing some food. While they were cutting bread and potatoes, d'Artagnan noticed Porthos kept glancing up at him.

"Are you all right?" Porthos finally asked, after having given him about a hundred, not-so-sneaky glances.

"Yes, of course," d'Artagnan bluffed. "Why?"

Porthos raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, you've been unusually quiet, 's all."

"I've just been cautious. Didn't want to be snuck up on again. Like yesterday."

The fighter nodded in understanding. "I guess we could learn a thing or two from you sometimes." Then he gave a loud chortle.

"Learn what?" Aramis voice sounded from the opening of the cave, eager to join in. Him and Athos entered the cave, both holding bundles of firewood in their arms.

"Nothing," d'Artagnan mumbled upon seeing the ever-continuing disapproving look in Athos' eyes. He had yet to know why his mentor had been so distant from him since… well, since he saved his life. Perhaps, he had hurt his pride in some way? Honestly, with Athos, it's hard to know what's going on in his head sometimes.

"We were talking about how we should chat less, and pay more attention to our surroundings while we're traveling," Porthos couldn't help but answer, not noticing d'Artagnan's signs that told him to drop the subject. But he said it in a tone that suggested he was just joking.

"What's the fun in that?" Aramis laughed.

"Well, if we had paid more attention, d'Artagnan probably wouldn't have been shot," Athos said it in such a serious tone, that everybody grew quiet. The silence that followed was an unsettling one, and no one knew how to break it. Athos continued to put down the firewood as if nothing happened, and tried to kindle the logs to create a welcome fire.

"Athos," Aramis finally started, crouching down to help Athos build the campfire. "We were all extremely exhausted that day. No one could have prevented it."

"That's no excuse." Athos rebutted, his expression sombre. "It never should be.”

After that no one dared to say anything anymore. Athos was obviously in a bad mood, and everyone knew that once he was, there was nothing that could be done or said that could take him out of it. Even the talk during mealtime was limited to small-talk, and usually ended in awkward silences that filled the cave like the cold from outside. But unlike the cold, there was no fire to chase it away.

D'Artagnan didn't feel particularly hungry, which worried him as well. Well, he _did _feel hungry. It was more that eating felt like too much of a chore. Yet he managed to eat a whole plate, and thankfully no one noticed he didn't go for seconds (while everyone else did).

As soon as he finished his plate, he leaned his head back to rest on the cave wall he was already leaning against. He closed his eyes, gladly, as keeping them open seemed too much of a hassle as well.

He started thinking of Constance. If only he could see her kind smile, the most beautiful thing in the world, warm like a thousand suns, gentle like the King's horse, never failing to make him smile in return, as well. If only he could hear her calming voice now, sweet like raspberry pie, relaxing like a kitten's purr, never failing to sound like music to his ears. Suddenly he was sure he felt her warm embrace, her gentle fingers stroking his back, igniting a tingling energy down his spine, her lips parting and whispering sweet words in his ear that he wanted oh so badly to hear.

Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder roused him from his fantasy.

"D'Artagnan?" He heard Aramis' voice ask.

He wearily opened his eyes to see the medic crouching in front of him, staring at him with kind eyes.

"I've called you about five times now. You okay?"

"Ah, sorry," d'Artagnan said, rubbing his eyes. "Just tired." But as he rubbed his eyes, so too did he rub away the image of his beloved, like rubbing pencil from a paper with an eraser.

"I can see that," Aramis smiled. Thankfully, the man didn't seem overly concerned by d'Artagnan's tiredness. Perhaps it was to be expected, after all. "I do need to take a look at your arm again, if you don't mind."

"And if I do?" d'Artagnan couldn't help but ask, smirking. He was surprised he found the energy to do so.

"Then I have two friends back there who would gladly pin you down while I take a look at you." Aramis gave him his kindest smile. In the background, d'Artagnan could see Porthos shrug, and Athos staring into what seemed like nothing.

"That sounds like something I don't want to experience," d'Artagnan said as he struggled to take his jacket off. Not only because of the pain, but also because it costed him so much energy. Thankfully, Aramis helped him, his gentle touch in a way also very reassuring. But nothing like Constance's would have been.

But then Aramis asked him those dreadful words again.

"Are you sure you're fine?"

"Do you not believe me? I'm wounded," he joked. Sometimes it was easier to avoid a question by answering it with another question. Throwing a joke in there would probably help them to believe him, too.

"Well," Aramis started as he took a good look at the wound on his upper left arm. "I can't see anything that would be making you feel miserable, I guess. Your arm is healing well."

For a moment d'Artagnan felt surprised. With how he was feeling, he was almost guessing that an infection must have been settling in the wound in his arm. _I guess_, he thought, _there's nothing to worry about, after all. _

"Go get some rest. We'll take your shifts. You'll feel better tomorrow," Aramis said, patting his shoulder.

"I can do shifts, too. No problem."

Aramis cocked his head to one side, and opened his mouth to speak, but Athos interrupted him.

"No. Get some rest. That's an order." Athos said the last bit in such a way that d'Artagnan knew there was no discussing it. Also, he found that he didn't have the energy to discuss it any further, anyway.

So he closed his eyes. And before he knew it, he was swallowed by the darkness.


	3. Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I managed to finish this one!  
I am sorry it took longer than expected; life and perfectionism got into the way.  
I think I must have read through and changed this chapter at least twenty times haha. Finally decided enough is enough.  
(At least it is about 50% longer than my other chapters, so there's that.)  
Hope you enjoy!

D'Artagnan was roused from his slumber by hand gently shaking his shoulder, which, despite its tenderness, felt like an earthquake ravaging his body. On top of that, he didn't feel better at all, like Aramis had told him he would.

Perhaps, he was simply exhausted. Like a hungry cat chasing an elusive mouse, so too had they chased the bandits, who at this point almost seemed more like rumours, or figments of the imagination like dreams, than reality at this point. Not even a footstep in the snow could confirm the presence of the main characters of the stories. Not even a sound betrayed their existence, never bouncing from enough trees to reach them. Not even a glimpse, except for the lone man who had tried to shoot Athos – but even that glimpse seemed unreliable. Because what bandit, in their right mind – especially having to face four Musketeers – would ever act alone?

If it wasn't for the abandoned villages they had come across, with doors left open and broken windows – its shattered glass lying around its dead owners, like sparkly sprinkles on some sick kind of pie – he would have seriously doubted the existence of the bandits.

But, at some point, _even_ the hungry cat would stop its arduous chase, the hunger gnawing in its stomach just a new reality it has decided to live with. And, perhaps, he himself had simply reached that point as well.

Not even the welcome sunrays entering through the mouth of the cave, hitting the side of his body like a warm kiss, could make him feel better. Not even the smell of something other than mushroom soup wafting into his direction, entering his nose by means of his shallow breaths, could lift his hopeless mood.

Aramis was crouching in front of him, smile plastered on his face, his hat at a slightly tilted angle, speaking in an ever gentle voice as he asked the Gascon to see his wound yet again. Not having the energy to object, d'Artagnan nodded and let the marksman do his thing.

"All looking good," Aramis mumbled, a hint of relief in his voice. They met eyes, and d'Artagnan saw in them what he knew so well: that look of exhaustion. "Can't say the same about you, though. How are you feeling?"

"I could ask you the same thing," d'Artagnan heard himself respond.

"You could." Aramis lifted the corner of his mouth slightly. "But I am asking you nonetheless."

D'Artagnan swallowed away an itch that had been starting to settle in his throat. "I'm okay," he said, but it was like another voice spoke in his stead. Why could he not just be honest, and tell Aramis how he was truly feeling? "Just very tired," he heard himself add. As if that would make it better. But secretly, he was hoping Aramis would see through his lies – this blanket of deceit he was wrapped inside in, unable to get out of it by himself. As he spotted Athos' glancing towards him, he almost felt like he was starting to choke in that blanket.

"I see," Aramis sighed, the sleep in his eyes clear like a lone cloud on a sunny day. "Well, I guess that's to be expected after days of constant pain, extreme cold, and sleeping in caves. Nothing to worry about, I guess."

And with a pat on the Gascon's shoulder, the matter seemed to be settled.

So d'Artagnan put on a smile, as wide as the muscles of his face would let him, and using those same muscles to chat as he usually does, he tried to appear normal. He took the breakfast that was handed to him, and ate all of it despite his lack of appetite. He tried to engage in conversation best he could. He helped clean up the cave when they were ready to depart. He made sure, _absolutely sure_, that he wouldn't slow them down. He had given his word, and he didn't want to go back on it. He was simply tired, like the rest of them. And he, especially, didn't want to disappoint Athos. The look his mentor managed to continue on giving him was bad enough as it was, stinging like a stiletto in his heart.

But truly, there was a storm raging in his body. His head was pounding like it was blown to pieces from the inside. His vision twirled like a tornado was distorting the colours and figures in it. The sounds around him felt muffled, like he was being dragged underwater by unrelenting waves. And as he was trying to stay afloat, he was struggling to take deep breaths. Also, he knew he was running a fever, his body temperature fluctuating as quickly as Athos' moods. One moment he was shivering, which thankfully wasn't particularly concerning to anyone who saw, considering the cold breeze that entered the cave like an unwelcome guest every now and then. The next moment, he felt like he was burning from the inside, seconds away from dripping with sweat as if he was melting like a candle. And then there was the itch in his throat which, after the pain he experienced after coughing just once, he decided to ignore. Just as he ignored the rest of his symptoms.

*******

Porthos had noticed something was up. D'Artagnan ate slower than usual. He was engaged in their conversations, sure, but more often it looked like he was staring into nothing, his head in a different place. Then, when they started cleaning up, he thought he saw the Gascon almost stumble more than once and always finding a reason to lean against something, but he wasn't sure. Of course, nothing was particularly alarming, but it was odd. Like a lone cloud on a clear and sunny day.

He was staring at such a cloud as he and Aramis were alone, preparing the horses outside, while Athos and d'Artagnan were still inside the cave to clean up. He couldn't help but ask the marksman what had been gnawing away at his mind, as if his thoughts had been mice and his brain a particularly yummy piece of cheese. "Do you think d'Artagnan's alright?"

Aramis seemed surprised by the question, staring at him for a quick second before speaking. "Well, I mean, he's obviously tired. He has said so himself after all. But aside from that, I think he's fine." A quiet rustle and a cold breeze filled the short silence that followed. "Why? Are you worried?"

"Well, yes. He just…" Porthos scratched his beard, realising it needed a good trim. "I don't know. Perhaps I'm just overthinking things."

Aramis smiled, laid a hand on Porthos' upper arm, and spoke to him in a reassuring voice. "Look, Porthos, a man just tends to always forgets how tiring dealing with pain can be. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."

Porthos nodded, and decided to take the medic at his word. Aramis knew what he was talking about, after all. And Porthos did indeed remember, back when he was injured once, that he felt like he had been fighting _all_ day, when in truth, all he had done was lay in bed and rest. And aside from being shot and hitting his head, the boy had hurt his ribs, too. Porthos knew very well how much that could hurt, and, on top of that, you're reminded of it every second of the day as you breathe. Even Porthos himself was feeling exhausted from their mission so far, so he couldn't imagine how d'Artagnan was feeling. But when Porthos looked at d'Artagnan as he mounted his horse, he couldn't help but shake the uneasy feeling he had. Nonetheless, he kept it to himself.

They rode for another four hours without much happening. Porthos found himself quietly wishing for _some _signs of those damned bandits. He just wanted to be done with it, and go back to Paris, where he could sleep in an _actual _bed instead of those shabby ones they had been sleeping in, with their hard mattresses and stained blankets, more often sporting holes than not. And everything was better than having to sleep on the hard and cold floor of a cave. But as he was starting to think about food, that everything was better than any of their cooking, he was interrupted by loud shouts all around him.

And his wish had come true.

Dozens of bandits suddenly appeared from behind the trees, their weapons raised as they charged towards them like an angry mob. Without hesitation, the Musketeers grabbed their pistols, resulting in four bandits decorating the snow with red stains, and some birds flying away after being spooked by the sound of gunshots.

But there were at least twenty more. And they were closing in fast.

"There's too many of them!" Aramis shouted.

In the distance, they heard the sounds of hoofbeats mixed with angry screams getting closer, its concoction warning them of imminent danger like a looming thunderstorm.

"Let's outrun them while we can!" Athos screamed, looking into the direction of the horses who were now just within sight. There were at least seven of them.

In unison, they brought their horses to a gallop and fled, having to avoid some of the men on foot who were still relentlessly chasing them, warding them off with their swords and pistols. But their efforts had slowed them down, and the hoofbeats were now at an uncomfortably close distance away – within pistol range.

In the chaos that ensued – gunshots, swords kissing, screams of anger and anguish sounding all around them – Porthos found himself at some point following Aramis, who had found a path through the wave of bandits. He shouted at his horse, beads of sweat dropping down his face, his pants wet as a bandit's sword had probably found its way through them, his brain only offering him tunnel vision at the Musketeer riding in front of him.

He wasn't sure for how long they had ridden before they stopped. The horses were panting loudly (as were they), and Porthos gave his horse a gentle scratch on his head, praising it for saving their lives. As the tunnel vision faded with every breath, he became aware of his missing friends, and his throbbing leg. 

"You're bleeding," Aramis said, his eyes fixed on Porthos' leg. The marksman was also panting loudly, but seemed fine despite that.

"Tell me something I don't know," Porthos said, wincing as he gently touched the wound with his hand to feel how deep it was. Thankfully, the sword had only grazed the surface, his pants having suffered most of the damage. That didn't mean it didn’t hurt, though.

"Think Athos and d'Artagnan got out, too?" Aramis asked. The Spaniard was looking around him as if he was expecting them to show up any minute.

"I hope so," Porthos said, wiping the blood on his finger on a clean part of his already ruined pants. "I didn't know there would be so many of them. The reports said ten, at most. There were at least three times as many." After a few quick breaths, he mouthed, his voice a mix between anger and worry: "Damn it, I just hope they're safe."

"Me too, Porthos. Me too."

*******

Athos rode on his horse with all the speed it could muster, pushing it way past its limit. Thankfully, the beast kept up, probably also realising the danger it was in, bullets having whizzed past it left and right. From time to time, he looked behind him to make sure that the hoofbeats he was hearing were those of d'Artagnan's horse.

Athos only decided to stop when they had arrived at an abandoned village – which had not been deserted that long ago, by the looks of it – but only because he hadn't seen or heard their pursuers for at least half an hour. The smell of death was still hanging over the village like a thick cloud. Flies were buzzing around each corpse, covering their already rotten faces like a black veil. It wasn't a pretty sight, but it seemed like a good place to take refuge for a while.

He gently reined in his horse, and saw d'Artagnan stop next to him.

The boy looked like death itself.

For a moment Athos thought he must have gotten shot again – that's how pale the Gascon was.

"Are you all right? Did you get shot?" Athos asked hastily, his heart beginning to pound faster.

"I'm fine, Athos," d'Artagnan responded, followed by a quiet cough. But this time, Athos didn't believe a word of it.

"No, you're not. You look like you're about to pass out." Athos dismounted his horse and walked over to d'Artagnan to take a better look at him. He really, really, didn't look fine at all. Why had he not seen it earlier? The boy was fine just this morning… Or was he? "Did your wound open?" he asked, unsure of what was causing his brother's distress.

"I'm fine… Athos. Really," d'Artagnan insisted, still panting. He was sitting hunched over, gripping his chest. It was obviously paining the boy to just breathe.

"I can clearly see that you're not," Athos told him sternly. A lump in his throat appeared as he walked over to the boy's left side and carefully lifted his cloak away from his left arm, which had been hiding the dark red stain that had been forming beneath it. At least that explained why d'Artagnan was so unusually pale. He swallowed before informing the Gascon of his faith. "Your wound has opened. We'll need to stitch it again. Let's go take refuge in one of these buildings."

"But what… what about the bandits chasing us?"

A heavy sigh left Athos' lips. "There won't be much chasing with you being like this. Come on."

He led his and d'Artagnan's horse to the village's stables, glad to see there was still hay left in the feeders. The horses began eating it almost immediately, their bellies probably just as empty as his own.

Athos gently helped d'Artagnan dismount his horse, and dangled one of the boy's arms over his shoulder. Despite the Gascon insisting he was fine, he clearly needed help walking, because even with Athos' help they were walking with the preciseness of a drunken man.

Athos chose a house close to the stables, so they could get to the horses quickly if needed. Once inside, he helped d'Artagnan to a chair, the boy slumping into it like all the bones had left his body. He was still breathing shallowly, and sweat was dripping down his face. He coughed again, only once, as he was interrupted by a quiet grunt after said cough. Athos gently laid the back of his hand on the Gascon's forehead. It was sticky from the sweat, but most importantly, it was uncomfortably warm.

"You're running a fever... Why didn't you say anything?" He made sure to have no hint of anger in his voice. Because he wasn't angry. He was concerned.

…And feeling incredibly guilty.

"I didn't want to slow you down," d'Artagnan said weakly. Another cough and grunt left the boy's lips, his face drooping afterwards, weary and exhausted. 

Athos sighed, rubbed his own tired eyes, and draped a hand on the boy's shoulder, as if that would make him feel better. Despite himself, he heard some words leave his mouth that were definitely _not_ going to make d'Artagnan feel better. "You should have been honest with me before, when I asked you if you were well enough to join us."

"I was," d'Artagnan said weakly, looking hurt, but having little energy to say much else. This time, when another coughing fit befell the Gascon, it didn't end with just one cough. The hacking, raspy coughs tore at Athos' heartstrings, controlling his emotions like a marionette. He helped the swaying boy stay steady in his chair, rubbing his back afterwards as d'Artagnan was left with wheezy pants. Athos sighed hopelessly, his head lulling forward, as he thought of what to do.

_…What would Aramis do?_

He looked at the helpless Musketeer, his eyes now closed, struggling to breathe as apparently it hurt too much, and shivering violently in the wooden chair which creaked every time he shifted his weight around.

_Step one_, he figured, _was to make the Gascon more comfortable._

"I'll be right back," he said to the half-conscious Musketeer. He ran upstairs in search for a bed, and found one with plenty of blankets. Thankfully, the family who used to live here had prepared for the winter well. His sigh of relief didn't last long, as shortly after, he heard a loud thud come from downstairs. With the same haste, he ran back downstairs – almost tripping over one crooked stair, which creaked as it was stepped upon, as if complaining – to find the Gascon now laying on the floor. Athos felt a pang of guilt in his stomach, and for a moment he saw Thomas, lying on a wooden floor much like this one – already dead.

Calling d'Artagnan's name, he hurried over to him, and rolled him onto his back – a bit too harshly perhaps. The boy's eyes were shut tight, but he was still breathing.

_He was still breathing._

"D'Artagnan!" he yelled as he patted d'Artagnan's cheek.

"D'Artagnan! Wake up!" he mumbled as he now moved to shaking the boy's shoulders. He wouldn't be able to get him upstairs without him being awake.

"Wake up already, God damn it!"

Athos let his head hang loose, desperately searching for answers to this equally desperate situation.

A quiet cough and a grunt followed by a weak voice made Athos lift his head. "You don't have to curse." D'Artagnan was staring back at him through half-closed eyes, wearing a fragile smile.

"I do when my brother has passed out on the floor," Athos said, but couldn't help but give the boy a weak smile back. "Come. Let's get you somewhere more comfortable while you're awake, okay?"

He helped the boy upright, and thankfully d'Artagnan was still able to somewhat walk with his help. It almost felt like a miracle when he got d'Artagnan up the stairs and into the bed safely and without too much of a hassle, considering the circumstances.

"I'm afraid I cannot light a fire, or it will give away our location," Athos informed d'Artagnan, laying another blanket over the Gascon.

D'Artagnan nodded, and tried to stifle another cough, but failed. Athos grabbed his waterskin and helped the Gascon drink after his coughing fit, and he took it gladly, drinking it almost a bit too ravenously.

"Perhaps the wound is infected?" d'Artagnan suggested after drinking it all.

"It is likely," Athos nodded. "Does it hurt?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

"Well…" Athos knew a wound would hurt _a lot _when it was infected. "We'll need to stitch and clean it anyway. Hang on, I'm going to look around for a needle and thread."

Athos stood up, reluctant to leave the boy alone, but the knowledge that they had to stitch his wound sooner rather than later drove him forward. He silently cursed at himself as he searched every drawer and every cupboard in the room, wishing he hadn't left the medical supplies with Aramis' horse. Then again, he had no idea if they had need for it either. He shook his head, knowing that the worry he was feeling for his other brothers was not serving him at this moment in time.

A breath of relief left Athos as the last drawer he opened was filled with sewing supplies. Never had he felt so happy upon seeing a needle and thread. The needle was blunt, and the thread was thick, but it had to do.

_Now something to clean the wound with._

He went downstairs, glad to see the kitchen hadn't been raided by the bandits. There was a whole cupboard filled with bottles of homemade wine.

_Perfect_.

He brought one with him as he ran back to his brother, and sat down next to him, putting the stitching supplies and the alcohol on the nightstand. Thankfully, the Gascon was still awake. Athos could feel his own heart beating fast in his chest as he asked d'Artagnan to undress so they could stitch his wound. The Gascon agreed, and they took off his cloak, jacket and thin, white shirt that was stained red. The stitches had failed on multiple spots, and Athos could just imagine the rage Aramis would have felt upon seeing the carelessness with which his stitches had been handled. Because it was definitely user error.

"Well… it doesn't seem to be infected, at least," Athos informed d'Artagnan, giving him a tentative smile, but the Gascon didn't seem as relieved as he himself felt. Athos cleared his throat, and pulled out the old stitches as quickly as he could, ignoring d'Artagnan's silent winces. He put some of the wine on a cloth and set upon dabbing the wound with it. The next time d'Artagnan winced, another coughing fit escaped the boy's lungs. Athos patiently waited until it passed, but not without a stinging feeling in his gut. Then he remembered what Aramis had said before. "Perhaps you've gotten a lung infection? Like Aramis warned you?"

"Maybe," the Gascon croaked, his voice rough from the coughing.

Athos was worried that d'Artagnan didn't deny his suggestion, and that told him enough. If he really had gotten a lung infection, then they were in deep trouble. His medical knowledge only really extended to how to clean, stitch and dress a wound.

_If only Aramis was here…_

Athos let out a heavy sigh. He prepared the needle and thread as he grabbed from the nightstand, almost dropping it as his fingers were sweaty. "The needle is blunt, so it will hurt."

He looked at d'Artagnan glancing at the needle, and he saw in the boy's eyes that they both knew it wasn't going to happen without at least one scream of pain, having the potential to reveal their location. Athos grabbed a piece of cloth, rolled it up and handed it to the Gascon. "Here, bite on this."

The young Musketeer nodded slowly, and took it with what seemed like conviction, but maybe that was just false bravado. Athos set upon cleaning and stitching the wound, and if he thought the groans of pain were bad during the former, he hadn't heard those during the latter yet. But nonetheless, despite everything in Athos' body telling him not to do it – his hands were shaking and sweaty, his heart was eager to get out of his chest, his eyes were more often than not keen to look at anything else but the wound – he kept going until it was done. After what seemed like an eternity, he helped the Gascon dress again, and they both slumped down – Athos into his chair, and d'Artagnan into his bed.

Athos let out a long and drawn-out breath. "Go get some rest. I'll take watch."

"You need to rest, too," d'Artagnan said, his voice barely a whisper. The boy's forehead was shining with sweat, and he was looking paler and even more tired than before – if that was even possible.

"I think now is not the time to be worrying about me," Athos smiled, squeezing d'Artagnan's wrist. But as he did, he couldn't help but feel guilt seeping from the boy through the cracks of his fingers.

It was all his fault.

If only d'Artagnan hadn't jumped in front of the bullet, the one that had been meant for him.

_If only he hadn't saved my life_.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get a control over his thoughts, but they were washing over him like waves.

_I can't lose another brother, _he heard himself think. _Not again._

_I would rather die first._

"Athos?" the Gascon seemed to bring him out of his turmoil. A temporary calm in the eye of a storm.

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry." D'Artagnan was almost unable to keep his eyes open any longer, and Athos wondered if it was the fever talking.

"What for?" he asked him, desperate to know what the boy possibly had to be sorry for.

D'Artagnan seemed to think for a moment, then closed his eyes. "I don't know," he mumbled before finally falling asleep.

*******

They reached the village just before midnight. Riding in the dark had been a stupid decision, dangerous at best, but they had found no other shelter along the way they took.

Still, they couldn't help but feel intensely relieved when they arrived in one piece – well, aside from the cut in Porthos' upper right leg. Aramis had given it a quick bandage, but it still needed proper care.

And much like them, so too were the horses relieved. Porthos' horse seemed a little bit irritated from all the running it had had to endure today, as it shied away from every touch the man tried to give it. Aramis' horse wasn't doing any better, Porthos noticed, as it had started walking with a slight limp.

He and Aramis parked the horses in the village's stables, which belonged to Anglique's tavern, so they knew they would be in good hands for the time being. They couldn't help but feel worried though, when they saw that their friends' horses were not there.

Upon entering the tavern, Porthos felt strangely uncomfortable to be limping into the welcoming warmth and the bustle of people talking and laughing, their joy partially fuelled by wine and beer. It was all the more uncomfortable as Angelique immediately ran over to them, her facial expression a mix of hope and confusion.

"You have returned," she exclaimed, her expressions changing to something sombre upon seeing only two Musketeers, but most importantly upon seeing the expressions on _their _faces. "Where… where are your friends?" she asked, nearly tripping over her own words. "And… my God… you're bleeding!" Her eyes were fixed on the makeshift bandage around Porthos' right leg.

Porthos and Aramis glanced at each other, both hoping that the other would be brave enough to answer her. Then they opened their mouths in unison, each starting to explain the story in a different way, but both only got as far as saying just a few words, wanting to let the other speak. The woman stared at them in confusion, and her eyes were starting to gloss over.

"Oh God," she mumbled, then raised her voice to an uncomfortably loud level, causing everyone in the tavern to hear. "Are they dead?! Is Maurice…?"

"No, no," Aramis interrupted her, trying to calm her down. "No one is dead. Not as far as we know, at least."

Porthos immediately noticed the mistake in the marksman's words, but had no time to correct it as the woman responded to it with a fierceness only a woman like her can have.

"Not as far as you know?!" she shouted, spit flying at the poor marksman's face.

"Madame, I assure you –" Porthos tried, but was interrupted by a finger pointing right at his nose.

"And how are you going to assure me _anything_? You're injured, for heaven's sake! And where even are your friends?"

"We don't know," Aramis answered calmly. "But I'm sure they're fine."

It was like steam was starting to blow out of Angelique's ears. "How can you be sure?! You just said you don't even know where they are!"

"Because," Aramis started saying sternly, not wavering his eyes from hers for even a second. "I trust my brothers."

For a moment she looked taken aback, the words she had wanted to say stuck in her mouth. Then, she swallowed them away, and replaced them with different ones. "And… my husband?"

"We haven't found him yet," Porthos said. "But we will continue looking for him tomorrow."

She seemed to calm down upon hearing these words, slowly nodding as she took them in. "So… what happened?" she finally asked.

They both let out a sigh, and started explaining to Angelique what had happened. Afterwards, it was her turn to let out a sigh. "I see... Well, take a seat. I'll prepare you some food and get you some medical supplies."

They gladly sat down, choosing a table in the far corner of the tavern. By now people were already starting to leave, bringing the commotion of the evening to an end.

Aramis set upon suturing Porthos' flesh wound with his usual precision, only pausing to rub his eyes or open his mouth wide to let out a loud yawn – after which Porthos couldn't help but yawn too. The food that Angelique had brought them was delicious, but the two Musketeers couldn't bring themselves to enjoy it. And as the tavern grew silent, not a soul left in it but them, so did they grow silent – there wasn't much left to be said, after all.

*******

D'Artagnan had been sleeping for about four hours when the idea came to Athos. He stood up from his chair – which he had put next to a curtained window – abandoning his post, and with it the task he had given himself of keeping watch over the village's courtyard. He figured that at this time of night, even the bandits wouldn't be stupid enough to go search for them.

Before leaving the bedroom, Athos glanced at the unfortunate Musketeer, who had been stubborn enough to take a bullet for him, and was, most likely, because of that burning with fever. From a distance, the boy almost looked peaceful. But on closer inspection, you could see his chest rise at an alarming rate, and beads of sweat roll down his face onto the wet pillow below him. And sometimes, Athos had observed, there was a twitch in the boy's eyebrows and eyes, as if he was in pain.

Athos let out a sigh, stepping carefully as he left the room, avoiding the floorboards that looked rotten or simply old, not wanting to give them a chance to creak. It was dark, and if it wasn't for the moonlight reflected by the snow outside, he wouldn't have seen anything. He continued on sneaking down the stairs, avoiding the crooked stair he had almost tripped over earlier. He ignored the image of his friend lying on the floor his brain was making him see as he walked past that precise spot, towards the kitchens.

_If the family had been stocked up on blankets to prepare for the winter, then surely, they must have a bunch of food stored somewhere, too._

And indeed, as soon as he opened a random cupboard, there were sacks of grain, and potatoes. Athos sighed, realising how incredibly lucky they had been that the bandits hadn't raided this building in particular.

But that wasn't what he was looking for, really.

It took the inspection of several cupboards to finally find what he wanted, since, after all the anxiety and turmoil from earlier today, he had forgotten where he had found it in the first place. He grabbed it by the neck, pulled of the cork with his dagger, and drank the entirety of it with the gluttony of a thirsty man.

The alcohol left a pleasant, burning feeling in his throat, that travelled slowly down into his empty stomach. For a moment he regretted it. Drinking that much at once hadn't been his plan (he had only wanted a glass or two), and he knew it hadn't been smart, considering the situation. But the dreamy feeling that followed in his head left him wanting for more. He grabbed another bottle, removed that cork too, and set it on the kitchen counter.

Perhaps, some food would do the both of them good, he figured. He set on peeling some potatoes with his dagger, but halfway through felt the task was too much of a hassle. He reached for a bottle of wine – two empty ones were already decorating the kitchen counter by now, and the third was already halfway emptied – but as soon as he touched it, he felt anger streaming through his body with an energy that left him wanting to kill.

"Damn it!" he yelled, throwing the bottle against a nearby wall, which hadn't deserved the fate of having a large dent with flecks of wine splashed all over it at all. But Athos paid the wall no mind, as he leant forward on his chair, digging his head into his trembling hands.

How could he be sitting here, drinking wine, when d'Artagnan was feeling unwell?

How could he, _he_ of all people, abandon the Gascon in his room, only to try to wash away the guilt he was feeling, when that same guilt he was feeling was caused by the boy in the first place?

How could he have _even_ thought that drinking wine had been a smart idea, at all? How could he risk the boy's life like that? What if they were attacked? What if d'Artagnan needed him?

Even he himself was surprised by the stupidity of his actions.

But as he was staring at the spot on the floor where he had feared for his brother's life, he kept seeing the ghost of Thomas' motionless body lying there.

He stood up, stumbling, the wine already having done its damage. Although the Musketeer was a veteran to the effects of alcohol, he was no match for it on an empty stomach.

He slammed both his hands on the kitchen counter, partly because he needed it for support, and partly because he was angry.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to get rid of these feelings of guilt, anger, disappointment... of self-loathing.

He wanted to throw everything he _could _throw, hoping to shatter the things he was feeling into pieces that couldn't be put together again, like he had the bottle of wine earlier.

But that would leave him too broken, and he would need someone else to help him pick up the pieces.

He wanted to open more bottles of wine, which were staring back at him from the cupboard that was still left open, so he could wash away all his sorrows and fall into a peaceful slumber. But in that slumber, he would hopelessly drown, more than he was already drowning in his feelings right now.

And none of that would help d'Artagnan in any way.

He took a few deep breaths, in and out, and set upon _actually_ making a meal for the both of them.

And this time, _without_ touching another drop of wine.

When he was finished – somehow having managed to peel potatoes, get water from the village's well, and starting a small fire to cook them – he walked back upstairs to that dreaded room, carrying two bowls filled with some form of mashed potato.

"Athos?" he heard d'Artagnan's voice say as he entered the room. The boy was not as pale as before, his usual tint having returned somewhat, but he was still covered in a thin layer of sweat. Still, he looked a bit better than he had earlier that day, but perhaps it was just hard to see in the dim reflections of the moonlight.

"You're awake," Athos said in return.

"I have been for a while." The boy let out a sigh. "Everything alright?"

Athos grabbed a chair – the one he had recklessly abandoned a while ago, chasing the phantoms of his past – and put it next to the bed. He avoided the boy's eyes searching him for answers. "Yes. Why?" he asked in return.

"First of all, you reek of wine," d'Artagnan started. "Second of all, I heard you scream 'damn it', followed by the sound of what I think was glass shattering."

Athos raised an eyebrow at him. "You must have dreamt it."

"Athos –"

"Look, just let it go, okay?" Athos interrupted him, making sure to give the boy one of those looks that was sure to make him drop the matter.

"No, I won't. Athos, listen –"

"Let it go! That's an order, d'Artagnan!" he shouted at the Gascon, but immediately felt guilty after the fact. He knew it had been the wine speaking, and not himself. Then he handed one of the bowls with mashed potato to him, as if it was a peace offering, making sure to speak calmly. "I made you some food."

"I'm not hungry," d'Artagnan mouthed, turning his head away. He was obviously hurt by Athos' stupid outburst. Then, another coughing fit befell the poor Musketeer. Afterwards, he was left out of breath – and, Athos figured, after seeing the intensity with which he squeezed his blankets – in pain.

"Please, you must eat," Athos insisted, ignoring how tense his body had become after seeing his brother cough like that again.

"Is that an order, as well?" the Gascon asked sarcastically, still not turning his head back towards Athos.

Athos found himself lost for words. He realised the anger he was feeling at the boy was caused by the wine. And he realised the reason _why_ he was angry was absolutely not the Gascon's fault in any way. After a few seconds of silence, he let out a long sigh. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan. I might have had a little too much to drink after all."

"Well, yes. You're drunk," the Gascon said matter-of-factly.

"Yes," Athos admitted. "I guess I am."

"Mind telling me why?"

Athos sighed. "I will. But not now."

"Okay. When?"

Athos sighed yet again, his voice having lost some of the patience he had managed to muster before. "Must you always ask so many questions?"

"Can you blame me?" d'Artagnan asked.

"No. I would do the same." Athos smiled and laid a hand on the boy's arm, squeezing it. "Now, let's eat."

D’Artagnan nodded, and winced as he hoisted himself up so he could lean against the headboard. He took the bowl of mashed potatoes and eyed it precariously, but started eating it nonetheless. The look in his eyes that followed told Athos it wasn't one of the best dishes he had ever made. Upon tasting it himself, he couldn't help but notice that in his drunken haze he might have added salt more than once.

They ate with all manner of silences surrounding them. The first was the silence of someone who was feeling a maelstrom of emotions, which was too hard to possibly put into words. And even if he could give these emotions a name, he had to get it through a fortress that the recipient had built around him. The second was the silence of nightmares, filled with demons from the past, that brought his mind to another realm and stole the words out of his mouth. The third was the simplest silence. A silence in its purest form. A silence that purely existed because there was nothing left to say.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to apologise for the amount of time it took me to update the story. There are a lot of reasons, but I guess there really is no excuse that it should have taken me this long. I've decided to make my chapters a bit shorter to hopefully help increase the rate at which I upload them. I hope you can forgive me for the long wait, but most of all, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Also, I would like to thank all the people for the kudos and the comments, and just for even reading my story. It really means a lot to me, so thank you. I promise you the next chapter won't take as long! :')  
Enjoy! <3

The next morning, Athos' head felt like an anvil, to put it simply. An anvil which was struck by a mighty force, over and over. Again. And again.

Earlier in the night – when the moon had just made its debut from behind the houses opposite to Athos, shining as brightly as it could muster as if trying to impress all that could see it – Athos had decided to let his arms bear the full weight of his head instead of his neck. He had quickly realised then, that the false hope he had that his neck would stop its tirade of complaints in the form of pinches and throbs, was false indeed. Yet, he had been too tired to bother finding another position to sit in that was more comfortable. He had decided that he would have to cope with the constant stinging in his elbows, caused by the rotten and uneven wood of the windowsill he was leaning his arms on, in order to just keep his head up. He would just have to deal with the putrid smell of dead bodies that the breeze managed to carry through the badly insulated window from time to time. He would just have to accept the fact that the simple act of smelling certain odours could aggravate the pounding in his head even more than he had thought was possible. Nonetheless, even though his body was hurting in all the wrong places, and even though he was longing for a good night's sleep, he had no incentive to move. Because from his current position, he had the perfect view over the village's courtyard. But, most importantly, it also allowed him to keep a close watch on d'Artagnan.

The Gascon had been lost in his slumber since they had eaten their meal, laying so still Athos was almost sure that he hadn't stirred since. If it wasn't for the boy's shallow breathing, he wouldn’t even be sure if d'Artagnan was still…

Athos shook his head, regretting it immediately afterwards, and stared back out of the window with glassy eyes. By now, the village was starting to be lit by the orange rays of the dawning sun, which had managed to break through the scattered clouds in the sky that had formed during the course of the night. If it wasn't for the corpses decorating the village's courtyard, and the dire situation that they were in, it would have almost looked peaceful.

For a second, Athos closed his heavy eyes, giving in to the weariness that dwelt within them. As he did, he felt himself quickly falling into the limbo that exists between wakefulness and sleep – his mind losing its grasp on reality as it started imagining things that were only possible in dreams. He was looking at his younger brother Thomas, who was sparring with his other younger brother d'Artagnan – their swords clashing at an almost steady rhythm, accompanied by the sounds of ringing metal every time they kissed. In between the swords' resonances, Athos could faintly hear a thumping cadence in the distance, coming closer and closer the more his brothers sparred. As he wondered about its origin, his two other brothers gathered beside him: Aramis laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Porthos granted him his signature grin. They spoke to him, but the only noise that escaped their mouths was the thunderous pounding that was now so intense that he felt it pulsating in his chest. He even swore he could feel the earth tremble beneath his feet. Athos turned his head towards his sparring friends, but they were gone. At the same time, he no longer felt Aramis' hand on his shoulder, or Porthos' radiating presence next to him. Yet the drumming continued, getting closer and closer, until the world around him grew black, and the sounds quickly came to a close.

"Hoo!"

A voice roused him from his sleep. He was laying with his head in his arms, his body slumped over the rotten windowsill in an awkward position.

"Do you think they're here?"

Athos stifled a groan as he lifted his head, and peered out of the window with heavy eyes. Two men, mounted on horses, were standing in the middle of the village's courtyard, talking amongst themselves. He quickly jerked himself upright – ignoring his ever-complaining head as he did – and scrambled his still stiff body over to d'Artagnan as fast as he could. He shook the boy's shoulder – perhaps a little less gently than he had liked – and whispered his name as loud as he could. Thankfully, it did not take long before d'Artagnan's eyes opened and adjusted to the scene in front of him (that was, a profoundly serious-looking Athos). And, as Athos had already predicted, the Gascon seemed to react accordingly.

"Wha—?" was all the Gascon could let out before Athos laid a hand on his mouth, silencing him.

"The bandits are here," Athos whispered, and he removed the hand from the boy's mouth as soon as he was sure d'Artagnan understood the situation. Right at that moment, a series of yells erupted from the courtyard below.

"Look! There are horses at the stables!"

"Keep it down, Maurice! That means the bastards must be close. They're probably hiding in one of these buildings." 

Athos met eyes with d'Artagnan, and he was sure the Gascon was thinking the same thing as he was.

"…Maurice?" d'Artagnan whispered, his voice as rough to the ears as an unsharpened knife. "You don't think…?"

Athos snuck towards the window and dared to peek, his joints still protesting at the sudden movements. And indeed – how had he missed it before – there was the same, ever-nervous man who they had met at the tavern only a few days ago. It was indeed _the_ Maurice – Angelique's husband. Athos turned back around to d'Artagnan, and granted him a nod to pass on the grave news. The Gascon didn't seem to know how to respond, the boy's eyes staring off into the distance, looking at nothing in particular.

Athos found he did not have time to think of how he should feel about Maurice, as his mind was currently running a marathon trying to figure out how they were possibly going to get out of this situation. Thankfully, the window was as thin as a sheet of paper, and kindly offered access to the bandit and Maurice's private conversation.

"What now?" Maurice asked the other bandit, his voice just as trembly as it had sounded when they had met before. He was rubbing his arms, but whether it was because he was cold or nervous, Athos did not know. However, the fact that Maurice also kept avoiding eye contact with the other bandit as if his life depended on it, made Athos believe the latter was more likely.

"Considering you're useless at fighting… we'll have to come back for them later, with reinforcements," the other man responded, clearly not even trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. The bandit was a tall and burly man – one Athos would rather avoid fighting – his strength clearly up for display as the outline of his muscles were visible even through the thick coat he was wearing. In fact, his figure was the exact opposite of Maurice, and probably didn't help with Maurice neuroticism. "For now, let's bring their horses back to our camp, so they cannot go far if they do decide to run."

Athos let out a sigh, his head throbbing relentlessly at the amount of thinking that was going on in his brain. 

_What to do…_

He stared back at the Gascon, who at least seemed to be having the right idea by trying to get dressed.

_What to do?!_

Athos forced his legs to make him move over to his brother, and help him put his jacket and cloak on. The look in d'Artagnan's eyes told Athos that he was ready to fight, no matter what would happen, and that he wouldn't take no for an answer. Athos diverted his eyes to the cloak he was fastening around the boy – partly because he needed to look at it, and partly because he didn't want to see the pained look in his brother's eyes as he tried to stifle another coughing fit.

Athos quickly snatched d'Artagnan's sword and pistol to hand them over, before making his way back over to the window to sneak another peek. Maurice was walking back from the stables, leading the two horses who had saved their lives only just yesterday behind him. If there had been any chance of attacking them before they took their horses, it was too late now. All they could do now was flee and hope that, through some kind of miracle, the bandits wouldn't find them.

Because a miracle they needed if they were going to get out of this.

*******

Porthos groaned as his head ached from lack of sleep. He hadn't been able to rest at all, really. Partly because his leg kept annoying him with throbs of pain, but mostly because he was sick with worry for his brothers. Judging by Aramis' constant tossing and turning during the entirety of the night – only to be intermitted by occasional sighs – he figured the Spaniard hadn't slept much either.

Not a word was spoken over breakfast, and the food did not seem to improve either of their moods – nor did it relieve the constant churning in Porthos' stomach. In the end, it was Angelique who dared to break their silence.

Porthos had noticed that she had been constantly eying them during the copious amount of time it took for them to finish their meal. Whenever Porthos would dare to peek at her, she saw her eyes revealed a burning determination that they themselves lacked. Only after they were finished did she sit down at their table, and she spoke without hesitation.

"What will you do now?" she asked, as she held both their gazes, barely blinking as she switched between them. Porthos exchanged a glance with Aramis, who seemed just as clueless as he himself. Yet, it was the marksman who dared to answer.

"To be honest, Angelique, we don't know," he said after careful consideration, his voice faint, merely a remnant of its usual morale. "There are way more bandits than we anticipated. More than we can beat with just the two of us."

This aggravated the determination she was set upon having, her eyes spewing flames like a wildfire. "But you must rescue my husband!" Her loud swallow could be heard from across the table. "And your friends!"

"Angeli—" Porthos tried to interrupt her tirade, but she was merciless, as her words continued to fire bullets left and right.

"How can you just abandon them?! Who knows what the bandits will do to them?! You have heard what they did to the other villages! How can you even think to –"

"Angelique!" Porthos roared as he stood up abruptly, suppressing a wince as his leg hurt, the table shaking as he slammed his hands upon it. Angelique stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth agape, her hands shaking. He felt bad for her, but he had to tell her the truth. Or perhaps… he just needed to hear it himself. "There is nothing we can do."

Angelique sank into her chair, and buried her head into her hands as she quietly started to sob. Porthos then realised he much preferred the silence that was between them before, than the painful sounds of Angelique's whimpers.

"Actually," Aramis started saying after a moment of silence. "There is something we can do." Both Porthos and Angelique turned their heads towards the Spaniard, waiting not-so patiently for the supposed plan the medic had conjured up. "We could ride back to Paris, ask for reinforcements."

The silence that filled the room for a few seconds told Porthos that they both hadn't expected that answer. 

"But that will take a week. Plus _another_ week to ride back," Porthos said, feeling the need to interject. He too had thought about it during his restless night, but he had concluded that two weeks of absence would pose too much danger for his lost brothers.

"Yes, it took one week of riding when taking frequent breaks and being cautious. However, if we rode day and night at full speed, taking breaks only when the horse needs it, it will take around –"

"Three days," Porthos mumbled.

Aramis nodded. "Yes, three days, give or take. Meaning it will take a minimum of six days before we return with reinforcements."

"Six days is still a long time," Angelique murmured. She was clearly not satisfied with the plan as she pursed her lips at them. "And that is if all goes well."

"I know, but I see no other way," Aramis said. "We must simply trust that Maurice, Athos and d'Artagnan can survive for that long."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, would you look at that! It didn't take me 6 months to upload a chapter this time!  
I must have revised this chapter at least 30 times, and I'm still not completely happy with it haha. Decided to just get it over with :').  
I hope you enjoy! And once again, thank you for reading! My story wouldn't exist without people reading it, so I really appreciate it.

That morning was one of the most hectic mornings of Athos' life.

As soon as the bandits had left the village, a discordant symphony of bangs and thuds blared throughout the house as cupboards and drawers were frantically opened and emptied, their contents leaving a mess as if a storm had whirled through the house. Athos had been able to find a variety of useful provisions to bring with them in a matter of minutes, including food, wine, and lots of blankets. The usefulness of wine was debatable, yes – especially considering the lingering after-effects of the beverage in question that he was still experiencing – but it was better than nothing.

As he got outside – d'Artagnan standing near the door on the lookout – he handed the Gascon his share of supplies to carry, stuffed in a makeshift pack composed of various blankets. The boy nodded in silent understanding and took it without complaint – though Athos did not miss the disapproving glance his student gave upon seeing that the pack's contents contained wine.

Athos eyed his brother for a moment, wishing he had Aramis' medically skilled eyes. Earlier that morning, d'Artagnan had insisted that he was fine, but Athos found it hard to believe considering the events from the previous day. Yet, here the boy was, standing and walking without much difficulty, seemingly alert and ready to depart. But, he had no idea if d'Artagnan actually felt better, or was merely hiding his turmoil. All he knew for sure was that they had to get as far away from the village as possible, as soon as possible. And if d'Artagnan said he felt well enough to do so, Athos didn't want to argue with him.

They started walking in the opposite direction the bandits had come from. Athos decided that when… or rather, _if_ they managed to elude the bandits for long enough, they could loop around and hopefully find their way back towards Angelique's village.

Thankfully, the rest of the morning passed uneventfully. Nonetheless, Athos found himself stuck in a vigilant haze, the mistakes from the past keeping him trapped there like a prisoner in shackles.

He found himself trying to discern the distant drums of hoofbeats that he might hear amongst the crunching snow. His eyes were darting restlessly from tree to tree, on the alert for signs of movement. He was even trying to feel vibrations in the ground with his feet, in the hopes of sensing the hoofbeats before he might hear them.

He would not – no, he _could _not make the same mistake again.

Every once in a while, he looked behind him to see if d'Artagnan was still following him. Thankfully, the Musketeer was able to keep up with him without help, though Athos noted the difficulty it took him to do so. He could see his brother's weary gaze which was always fixed to the ground, the frequent little clouds that formed near his mouth, the difficulty with which he seemed to lift his legs, and the occasional wince that took over his face. Yet, the Gascon voiced no complaints, and Athos swore he could see a fiery resolve glimmer in his student's eyes.

Even so, Athos could feel his heart trying to escape from his chest every time he looked at d'Artagnan. And when he turned his attention away from the boy, to again be engulfed in his vigilant haze, he would feel himself trying to swallow away an insistent lump in his throat.

Much to Athos' relief, the forest they were in grew denser and denser as time went on. The trees that surrounded them were now close enough to each other to make it difficult for horses to traverse, so much so that they would be nearly impossible to chase down if they had to run. Athos felt his shoulders slump, his teeth unclench, and he allowed his fingers to release from the fists they had been in this whole time.

"Athos."

D'Artagnan's voice bore through Athos like a painful dagger, making him freeze where he stood. He hesitantly turned around to see the Gascon hunched over, using his knees for support as he breathed as if he was drowning in air.

"Can we rest… for just a minute?" d'Artagnan panted, the resolve that Athos had seen in the boy's eyes having dwindled.

Athos helplessly watched as the Gascon struggled for air, taking a deep breath himself as he tried to get his feelings under control before speaking. "A minute should be fine," he heard himself say, cursing inwardly at his matter-of-fact tone. As much as he wanted to let his student rest, he also realised they had to keep moving.

D'Artagnan slowly nodded, and lowered himself down near a tree, leaning his head back against the trunk as he tried to catch his breath. Athos hesitantly approached the Gascon and knelt down in front of him, the Gascon peering at him through half-closed eyes. It cost Athos everything in his power to ignore the feelings of guilt that surged through him like bolts of lightning, which seemed to gather uncomfortably in his stomach. He removed one of his gloves, and rested his hand gently upon d'Artagnan's forehead. It felt worryingly warm, especially considering the chilly weather.

"Your fever is worse than this morning," Athos said, only realising afterward that the Gascon was probably already aware of this fact. D'Artagnan didn't respond, and simply went on trying to get air into his lungs as he closed his eyes.

_I mean, it was to be expected_… Athos thought. _But then, why do I feel like I'm at fault?_

He decided to let his brother rest for more than a minute. Because it definitely took longer than a minute until d'Artagnan's breath seemed to return to a somewhat normal pace. And as soon as it did, d'Artagnan got up on his own, using the tree as leverage and stumbling for a moment as if he was drunk.

"Let's continue," he simply said, voice raspy and eyes wavering.

"Are you sure?" Athos asked, because he himself wasn't. The Gascon was sweating, barely able to stand, and his complexion had lost its usual tan. This time, he didn't need Aramis' insight to know that d'Artagnan wasn't well.

He felt his jaw clench. How long had d'Artagnan been like this? And how… how could he not have noticed it?

The Gascon cleared his throat as he steadied himself. "We can't waste –" he started saying, only to be interrupted by a coughing fit. Athos didn't remember hearing the boy cough earlier that day, but whether that was because he had been fixated on other things, or because d'Artagnan had been stifling them, he wasn't sure. In any case, the coughing fit that befell the boy now seemed to make up for any coughs that were missed during the day. The force of his student's coughs made Athos almost think that the Gascon was going to hack his lungs out of his body.

D'Artagnan struggled to take breaths in between each cough, and he had to use the tree next to him in order not to collapse. Athos found he could do nothing but help the boy stand and wait until it was over. When the coughs finally seized, d'Artagnan was left even paler than before, his brow covered in sweat and his cheeks flushed a rosy red.

"Sorry," d'Artagnan finally murmured with whatever voice he had left. "I know we have to keep moving."

Athos laid a hand on the boy's arm – making sure that it wasn't his wounded side – and squeezed it tightly. "Don’t worry about it. Take as long as you need."

D'Artagnan didn't respond as he was left breathless and tired by the whole ordeal, and amidst the silence that followed, Athos heard an all too familiar sound in the distance. It was far away, but it was as clear as day. His body tensed, and he anxiously scanned the area around him to see if he could spot movement.

"You hear it too?" d'Artagnan said, his voice barely a whisper.

Athos nodded. "Hoofbeats. They're getting close." He eyed the Gascon for a long second as it felt like someone was ripping his heart from his chest. "Can you walk?"

D'Artagnan nodded and voiced no complaint as Athos slung the Gascon's arm around his shoulder, and together they continued on their impossible task of eluding the bandits.

But with the impending hoofbeats rumbling in the distance, the impossible seemed to get closer and closer.

*******

Aramis scratched his horse gently behind the ears, and tenderly slid his hand along her neck down to her withers, to which she let out a soft snort. Aramis noted that she seemed eager to depart – her hoof pawing the ground, digging a trench in the snow – still unaware of the tough journey that awaited them.

As he went through the contents of the horse's packs for what seemed like the hundredth time this morning, he still found himself feeling like he wasn't prepared enough. He watched the road in front of him as he adjusted his hat which, for some reason, wouldn't fit comfortably no matter what he did to it.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?" Aramis turned around to watch Porthos limp towards him.

"We've been over this," Aramis said. It was not the first time that morning that the brawler had asked him that exact question. And not the second time, either.

Porthos had insisted that he was fine, but Aramis could clearly see that the wound on his leg was bothering him more than he let on. As much as Aramis had hated to admit it, Porthos would only slow him down, and time was of the essence if they wanted to save their brothers.

"I know, but…" Porthos halted mid-sentence, scratching his beard as he seemed to be pondering over what to say.

"But what? The wound on your leg has magically healed?"

"That's not fair, Aramis," his brother grumbled, but the brawler couldn't help but flash a smirk. "It just feels wrong to let you go on your own."

"It feels wrong to leave you here, too." The horse let out a loud neigh as if she could sense Aramis' unease. "But what other choice do we have?"

At that moment, Angelique came running from her house with yet another bag of food.

"Angelique!" Aramis called to her as she approached. "Make sure you leave enough food for yourself and Porthos! You shouldn't underestimate how much food Porthos needs."

Porthos gave him an affectionate punch on the arm, and Aramis couldn't help but grant the brawler a grin in return. Angelique seemed unmoved by their banter, her expression a perfect painting of vexation.

"We'll be fine," she murmured as she forcefully shoved the food in the horse's packs. She hadn't been happy with the plan in the slightest, and she wasn't trying to hide it.

Aramis looked up at the sky, adjusting his gloves so they fit more snugly around his fingers, and was glad to see it was only just beginning to be noon.

"Well… I guess it's time for me to depart." He glanced at the brawler with trepidation, some part of him hoping that Porthos would tell him it was a stupid idea after all and that he should stay, but his brother remained silent. As a last resort, grasping at false notions of hope, he turned to Angelique. "Thank you for all your help, Angelique."

"Just make sure you return quickly," Angelique responded and, as if it was just an afterthought, quickly added: "and safely."

"I'll be as quick as I can." Once again, Aramis felt the urge to check if all the straps of the saddle were properly tightened, his fingers wrestling with the leather as he tried not to take note of Angelique's petulance.

_She is simply worried about her husband_, he reminded himself. _I can't blame her for that_.

"Aramis." He turned his head to see Porthos' arms spread wide, wrapping him in a tight embrace before he had time to react. "Be safe, my brother," his brother said, patting Aramis' back a few times before finally releasing him, allowing him to breathe again.

"You too," Aramis responded as he hesitantly mounted his horse, his stomach churning. He shifted in his saddle, unable to find a comfortable position to sit in. "And take care of your wound. Remember to change the dressing daily, and to clean it well. And most importantly, don't ruin my stitches."

"You know me." Porthos attempted to show off one of his finest smirks, but Aramis only just spotted the twitches that plagued the corners of the brawler's mouth. 

"That's exactly why I am worried." Aramis gave Porthos a feeble smile, finding himself suddenly struggling to keep eye contact with his brother. "I'll see you in six days, brother." He glanced once more at Angelique and bestowed her a resolute nod. Hesitantly, he spurred his horse on, his thoughts fighting a battle of ambivalence, his insides feeling like a raging whirlpool.

As he rode out of the village he didn't look back over his shoulder, afraid of what he might feel if he did. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am so sorry it took me a while to update. I have found little time to write in the last few months. But alas, here it is :).  
Things are taking a turn for the worse in this chapter. It seems every one of the musketeers is ending up injured in some way, oops.  
Hope you enjoy though. <3

"Come on, d'Artagnan."

Athos' voice was like a beacon in the darkness, guiding d'Artagnan from the seductive call of unconsciousness back to the grim reality that they were in.

Half of his body was collapsed in the snow, his hand and knee stinging as the cold penetrated through his clothes like tons of small needles. The other half was drooped over Athos' shoulder, where he could feel his mentor shake from the effort of trying to keep him upright.

"We have to keep moving," he heard Athos say through strained breaths, groaning as he fought to lift d'Artagnan back to his feet.

It took a few moments before d'Artagnan's mind managed to catch up, his thoughts wading through mud as he tried to get a grip on the situation. At first, the only thing he knew was pain – his arm, his chest, his head, and his lungs were all trying to tempt him back into the void. The next thing he knew, was the effort it took to get air into his lungs. It felt as if his throat had shrunk to the size of a nail, and every bit of air that got through fuelled the raging fire in his lungs even more. On top of that, lumps of mucus gathered uncomfortably in the back of his throat, and the coughs that followed would help little – as if they were scratching a never-ending itch. Next, he felt the warm sensation of fresh blood on his left arm, seeping into his clothes to become victim to the unrelenting cold. The final thing he noticed, were the drumming hoofbeats in the distance – nearly indistinguishable from his own heart beating in his chest.

And suddenly, all made sense again.

They had to keep moving.

He found the energy to rise back up, the world swirling around him like he was in the middle of a tornado. His vision was a blurry concoction of colours, melting into one another but never making sense – like an artist's palette after many hours of arduous painting. His hearing was just as incoherent, ranging from the loud breaths of his mentor to an incessant ringing that grew in intensity as time went on. Usually, the ringing in his ears would be paired by black patches that devoured his vision, followed by encouraging words from his mentor, that would yet again lift away the darkness.

He noticed that he was painfully aware of many things, yet at the same time, unaware of anything at all. He knew his legs were moving, but he was unaware of where they were going. He knew that Athos was voicing words of encouragement when his body gave out yet again, but he had no idea what his mentor was saying. He knew that they were running from the bandits, but he had no idea how close they were, or for how long they had been going. The concept of time was lost to him – all he still knew was that he had to keep moving.

One step at a time.

But as time went by, those steps would get harder and harder. Soon, not only the concept of time vanished from his mind, but also his grasp on reality.

He was battling a storm at sea, torrents hurling his body left and right, all sense of direction gone. The waves engulfed him, pulling him under, his body feeling heavy as he breathed in water, lungs erupting from his chest. And right as he was sure that it was over, something would pull him back to the surface, imploring him to keep on going. Urging him to stay awake. To keep moving forward.

And, slowly but surely, he would manage to take one step again.

Followed by another.

But by the third step, he was back to battling the relentless storm. The torrents grew in intensity, pushing him down and pulling him up. His body was screaming tantrums at him from the increasing force of the waves, and he gasped, coughing up water, drowning in air.

He found himself wishing for something, no… _anything_, that could make it stop.

Then, out of nowhere, almost as if on cue, a bang like thunder roared behind them, like the heart of the storm announcing its approach. And with it, he went down under, unable to breathe, unable to keep his eyes open any longer, swallowed by the merciless sea, where it was peaceful at last.

*******

Aramis instinctively ducked as he heard a bang behind him, loud as thunder. He was only too glad he did as a bullet whizzed past him, ending up in a tree that didn't deserve that kind of mutilation in the least. He fought to calm his spooked horse, veering her back on track and whispering words of reassurance into the mare's ear.

He feared for the worst as he dared to glimpse behind him, sweat dripping down his neck. He spotted a burly man spurring his horse on, barking words at him which, through the blaring wind and the loud pants of his mare, he could not comprehend. Yet, he knew their meaning well enough, especially when the man raised his pistol again.

Aramis cursed under his breath as he clasped his own gun, praying that he hadn't forgotten to load it.

*******

At first, Athos thought the gunshots had been meant for them.

He had thrown d'Artagnan and himself to the ground as soon as he heard the sound behind him. But now, as there were more gunshots in the distance – taunting them as they lay shivering in the snow – he realised they hadn't been aimed at them.

He hesitantly lifted his head, and found the forest around him still and devoid of life – a stark contrast to his heart beating at a million paces an hour. The hoofbeats that were nearing on them only a few seconds before were now dissipating into the distance, presumably towards the gunshots. He looked over to the Gascon lying beside him. The boy's eyes were closed, but he was still breathing.

"D'Artagnan," he whispered, as if afraid that the bandits might still hear him. He carefully shook the boy's shoulder, but the young Musketeer did not stir. Muttering curses, he rolled the Gascon over onto his back and brushed the snow off his pale face, but almost wished he hadn't done so.

His brother's chest raised and lowered at an unsteady and rapid rhythm, accompanied by a discomforting wheezing sound each time it lowered. His brow was covered in sweat, the skin around his eyes occasionally twitching as if he was hurting. The fabric on his left arm was decorated with flecks of blood, indicating that the stitches had failed.

"Damn it," Athos muttered to himself as he clenched his fists. "Damn it all."

A few more gunshots echoed in the distance, further away than last time. As grateful as Athos was to the miracle that saved them, he found himself wishing that it wasn't one of his brothers that was in trouble.

He shook his head and tried to calm his breathing. Now was not the time to think of these things. He had to make use of the distraction that had been presented to them on a silver platter.

With all his strength, he lifted the Gascon and hung him over his shoulder, grunting as he did so. He found his weakened body shivering underneath the weight, his knees wanting nothing more than to buckle under him. But he had to get them to safety, and so he started walking.

One step at a time.

***

Aramis had been lucky.

Well… maybe there had been a bit of skill involved too.

The shot he fired had hit the man squarely in the chest, who proceeded to slump off his horse into the snow below. But Aramis' rejoice was short-lived – between the trees in the distance he spotted more horsemen riding towards him, and judging by their bellows of rage, they weren't happy. Some of them dismounted their horses to care for the man bleeding out and crying for help, like a child who had lost its mother.

The others, however, seemed set on killing him.

He turned back around again, eyes peering at the road in front of him as he wrapped his hands tighter around the reins and leant forward. "We have to run, girl," he whispered to his mare, using his legs to urge his horse on. She needed little compelling though, as another bullet whizzed past and sent her into a frenzied gallop.

Aramis cursed inwardly, and wondered why there were so many of them this close all of a sudden. Had he stumbled upon the outskirts of their camp? He unconsciously clenched his jaw as a thought came to him.

_Could I be close to Athos and d'Artagnan?_

Part of him wanted to steer his horse deeper into the forest, back towards where the horsemen had come from. He shook his head, and glanced back behind him. There were at least five men following him, the sight of them making his heart sink. He loosened the grip on the reins and turned his gaze back forwards, into the never-ending path before him. The only way to save his brothers was to get back to the garrison in Paris, and –

His thoughts were interrupted by a gunshot in the distance. Only this time, he didn't hear it whiz past him.

He fought to steady himself on his mare as a pang of dizziness engulfed his vision and a wave of nausea washed over him. He heard himself grunt involuntarily as he reached for his left side, where his hand was being slowly painted dark red as he held it there.

It seemed his luck had run out.


End file.
